


A Sunday Afternoon

by Heavyheadedgal



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Gen, extreme fiber nerdery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavyheadedgal/pseuds/Heavyheadedgal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack visits his parents, we learn about the source of his knitwear, and his parents make an unexpected discovery. A completely fluffy bit of silliness inspired by a Tumblr discussion of Jack's sweaters. Post 3 x 08. Assume Jack and Phryne have managed to sort themselves out finally. Feel free to point out any mistakes, cultural clangers, language issues etc. I'm not an Australian so I pretty much just rely on the show and Wikipedia for my information. </p><p>Sorry about the boring title, it was the best I could come up with!</p><p>The characters of Jack's parents are mine, the character of Jack is Kerry Greenwood's, no infringement intended, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sunday Afternoon

_“Properly practiced, knitting soothes the troubled spirit, and it doesn't hurt the untroubled spirit either.” ― Elizabeth Zimmermann_

 

 

Jack's arms were beginning to tire.

His mother had had him standing in the dining room for the last ten minutes, alternately raising and lowering his arms while she held pieces of knitting, still on the needles, against him. The table was covered with wool, needles, his Fair Isle vest, and knitting patterns torn from Women's Choice magazine. His father was in the kitchen, preparing the Sunday roast. A general clatter, interspersed with singing, could be discerned, drifting through the house. It amused Jack to no end that his taciturn father turned musical whenever he attempted cooking.

Jack decided to attempt his first angle of attack. "You really don't need to go to all this trouble, Mother. I have plenty of jumpers already." It was a well-worn discussion between them, but Jack was nothing if not tenacious. He lowered his arms while her back was turned. His mother was counting stitches and doing quick sums with a pencil and paper.

She parried this without even looking up. "Nonsense, John, a man can never have too many jumpers. Especially a man who goes out in all weathers as you do. Besides, winter is coming."

"What do I have to do to get you to call me Jack like everyone else?" he asked wryly.

His mother straightend at this, turned around and looked him dead in the eye, one eyebrow raised.

"What name is written on your birth certificate?"

Jack sighed. This was another familiar battle, one he lost on a regular basis. But it might distract her from her wooly schemes.

"John Edward Robinson" he replied obediently.

"The day it says 'Jack', I'll call you Jack. Just because your father, your sister, and the whole of Victoria want to call you that awful nickname doesn't mean I must as well. Left arm up!"

He obeyed, and noted with concern that the piece of knitting she held up to his shoulder was a completely different color to the piece she had measured against his vest. This was not a good sign.

"I named you for your grandfather." Her expression softened. "You're so like him sometimes." She pinched his ear affectionately. "Just as pig-headed."

"I learned from the best," he said, smiling.

His father came into the room with fistfuls of cutlery. "Haven't you finished yet, Mary? Table needs laying."

"Keep your hat on, old man. I need to recalculate my tension. This son of ours isn't looking after himself properly, he's lost weight."

"No I haven't!" Jack spluttered.

"Hm." his father grunted, in the bass voice that was the pride of their church choir. "It's running after that Fisher woman that's done it. You should come home more often and have a proper meal."

Jack bit his cheek in annoyance. "Miss Fisher is invaluable to my investigations, Dad. And I do not 'run after' her. She assists me." 

Jack had no idea if, or how, he could ever explain to his parents what he and Phryne were to each other. He had come to his parents home after a lazy morning in her boudoir, a fact he was keen to avoid mentioning.He doubted they would sympathize with the idea of enjoying the specific benefits of marriage without the vows or obligations that went with it. He decided now was not the time to dwell on the problem.

Desperate to change the subject, he turned back to his mother. "Is that the same wool you used for my green jumper? Why don't you make a hat to match?"

His mother, holding the wool in question, regarded him suspiciously. "I thought you didn't like the green jumper."

"I never said that."

"You never wear it."

"That's because it itches."

"It wouldn't itch if you wore it more.The wool will soften with wear, and washing."

Jack could feel a headache beginning. Perhaps starting the day with a bucks fizz had been a bad idea. Phryne really was a terrible influence on him.

"It's ...a bit snug, is all."

"That's because you shrunk it when you washed it."

"You just said I should wash it more!"

"Yes, but _properly_ , John. The way I showed you. Never-mind, from now on just bring them here when you need your jumpers washed, I don't mind doing it for you."

Jack tried not to sigh audibly as his mother demolished his last remaining line of defense against the relentless onslaught of knitwear: "accidental" shrinkage. He was too naturally conscientious to believably "lose" items of clothing, and he had learned from experience that wool was surprisingly flame retardant. Besides, he didn't hate all her offerings. The white one with the collar was nice enough, and Phryne rather liked it.

"Anyway," she continued, "I need the green to contrast with the blue and orange stripes."

"Stripes??" Jack did not entirely succeed in keeping the note of panic out of his voice.

She looked at him as if he had three heads. "Of course, stripes! It's the best way to use up the leftover skeins from your other jumpers."

"I'm not sure stripes would suit me," he said, with extreme calm.

"You loved the one I made you last Christmas."

"Those were Abbotsford's colors. Why don't you knit a jumper for Dad?"

"You know full well wool gives me a rash," said his father, entering with a dish of boiled potatoes. He set it on the table, and Jack could tell by the set of his mouth that his father was laughing at Jack's predicament.

"Jack, come help me in the kitchen."

He followed his father in to the back of the house, which smelled of roast beef, and was promptly cornered.

His father fixed him with the solemn look that had always been a worse punishment than any boxed ear could be. Jack squirmed. "Son, if your mother wants to knit you a jumper, you're going to let her. It makes her happy."

" _Stripes_ , Dad!" he pleaded.

"I know." He put a consoling hand on Jack's shoulder. "I'll see what I can do about spilling my coffee on the orange wool."

"Thank you." Jack knew what it was to dodge bullets; this qualified.

Returning to the dining room, Jack picked his vest off the table. He decided to try one last ditch effort to preserve his sartorial dignity. "What about a pattern like this one?" Jack didn't really understand fashion, despite Phryne's attempt to explain haute couture, but he did like this new Scottish style everyone was wearing. 

"John, these colors wouldn't work at all in a Fair Isle pattern."

Jack had pulled the vest back on and his mother reached up to smooth back the cowlick that was forever falling in his eyes. As his father came into the room with the roast, his mother straightened his collar. Suddenly, her hands froze.

"What on earth is this?? John?" She tugged his shirt up from the vest.

"Um," said Jack. He could feel his ears turning a shade of red that matched the lipstick currently smudging the inside of his shirt.

"Mary, Jack, sit down you two, I'm carving. Don't think I won't start without you. You can say your own grace."

"Mother..."

"Arthur Robinson, your son has lipstick on his collar."

His father paused in his attentions to the beef, and looked at Jack. Jack hoped it wasn't a desperate imagination that put a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Dad..."

"I'm not discussing jumpers, or lipstick, or anything else until I've had my dinner."

 Jack sat at the table and mentally surrendered. He wondered if Phryne liked Yorkshire pudding. He had a feeling he was going to find out in the near future.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The sweater Jack's mother is knitting was inspired by [this one](http://friendsofsheffieldcastle.org.uk/mick-aston-rip/).


End file.
